Love is Just Closing its Eyes
by geminimimi
Summary: "And although, I know that he is blind..." If that were be taken into literal context. Not a one-shot, EM, MC, rated T to be safe
1. Chapter 1

A/N: After listening to On My Own for the 1000000th time, this idea wouldn't leave me till I wrote it out.

"I once brought a cat home. I dressed it up and me and my sister had lots of fun! But I'm not going to dress _you _up; I barely have clothes for myself." Eponine took off the man's soaked jacket and wrung it about.

"Don't look so sad, monsieur. At least you're dryer here now!" Eponine strategically shifted so that the water dripping from the hole on the roof landed on her back, and not his. Eponine peered at the man. His head was downcast. He looked utterly miserable. Eponine sighed.

"Monsieur, I paid for this room and I brought you in. The least you can do is _talk_."

"I'll pay you back soon," the man murmured, lost in his thoughts. Eponine was dissatisfied, eyebrows furrowing.

"I don't care about the money; it wasn't mine anyway. Tell me more. What were you doing out there all alone? You wear such fine clothes. Whatever happened to you?" Eponine inched closer and closer, eyes wide with curiosity and concern. A gentleman lying on the streets was not a common sight.

'_Do you have anywhere to go? Or to stay?' A pause. Then he replied 'No.'_

"I had my differences." The man's answer was curt. After speaking, his mouth set in a grim line and he refused to speak anymore. A million questions whizzed in Eponine's mind but she did not say them, save one.

"Can you at least tell me your name?"

The man fidgeted and sighed, then spoke. "Marius."

Eponine smiled, baring her teeth, and whispered the name, liking how it sounded and felt. Marius heard her say his name and flinched.

"What's yours?" Marius asked weakly, merely to be polite.

"Eponine!" the girl exclaimed, almost bouncing. There was a pregnant pause again after that as Eponine observed Marius.

"There aren't many pretty boys like you around. You have nice hair, and nice eyes, even though you're-" Eponine faltered then, unsure of what to say.

"It's a pity isn't it?" Marius insinuated, the slight trace of bitterness lingering on.

"I didn't say that. It doesn't have to be. I don't mind that you're…" There she went again. Why was she so afraid to hurt his feelings?

"That I'm what?" Marius kept his eyes trained downwards still. Was he shivering? Eponine leaned closer.

"Blind." She whispered, her breath dancing on his ear.

Both shuddered.


	2. Chapter 2

Eponine POV

I thought if I cried loud enough someone would notice. If I raised my voice and sounded sad and pathetic enough someone would come in concern. He'd ask, 'What's the matter?' and I'll reply. I'd say something. It doesn't have to be the truth- it can be all lies as long as there is someone to listen and assure me. I'd weep and tell him about everything; how I haven't eaten and how my parents are in jail and how alone and scared I am of the darkness. He'd pat me on the back and say sweet things. Maybe he'd even give me food or water if I'm lucky.

But if I cry loud enough who knows what will come? Paris at night is dangerous, above ground, under ground, every little corner, every small crevice. Home is dangerous. Home is full of bad parents and other pests and even when the parents are gone, it's full of sadness and loneliness. It's always too dark and too musty, always has a pair of sad eyes trailing you. I don't like home, no. Please don't send me back. Please, please….

Sometimes I can see people when they aren't there. No, not ghosts. Just people. People that come from my head and sometimes I just see them in front of me, but when I reach out they're gone. When I'm in the filthy arms of a man I do not know, I see Papa. I see him tapping one foot constantly, glaring impatiently and fingers rubbing against one another as if feeling money in between those spindly, dirty fingers. He's always rushing me, always irritated, always insensitive. When I pass by a child beggar crying and rotting away in the streets, I see Azelma, crying and rotting away at home. When I see a child laughing carefree and happy, I see Gavroche, smiling and teasing my misery.

Now I see a monsieur, a gentleman. His features are usually not clear but I know he has blue eyes, because no one I know has blue eyes. He has a pretty smile and a quiet, warm voice. I see him when I'm especially lonely and in need of love or at least affection, such as now. This time my monsieur –yes, he is mine- has his eyes closed and he is seated on the grimy ground, against an equally grimy wall belonging to a deserted alley. His breathing is slow and lulling and I wonder if this is supposed to calm me. He is from my mind, is he not? I settle next to him tentatively, carefully. Sometimes if I'm too abrupt and rough precious visions like this vanish. The moonlight shifts across the twisting streets and hidden alleys of the city, including the one I'm in now. I can see him very clearly today; every feature is well defined and every detail so apparent. My breath catches slightly; please don't let this disappear. My fingers drift over his face, hovering, almost touching. He is very handsome. He is everything I could ever wish for. If only he were real. If only my monsieur existed and hunger and poverty didn't.

And then I touch him. I touch him accidentally on the cheek and he does not sink into the ground or vanish with the wind. I lay one full hand on his cheek, heart beating wildly in anticipation. He does not go away. I grin. He's here, he's here, my happiness is here at last. Leaning closer to him I let out a small, hoarse giggle. He has a heartbeat, a real human heartbeat. God, am I going mad? Has my imagination taken me too far? Who cares? I let my head stay on his chest and my arms wrap around him, all the while smiling like an idiot. If he were to open his eyes and see me now he would surely run away, but he's asleep. So what if he's a complete stranger? The ground is cool and the air is fresh, so who cares, who cares…

"E-excuse me?"

Oh my God, oh dear God, he's speaking. His voice is every bit as sweet and smooth as I imagined. It's also frightened and confused, knocking me back unpleasantly to reality. Lifting my head from his chest and my arms from his body in one fluid motion, I sit upright and look at him. Really look at him. He has fine clothes on- a real gentleman's clothes, nicely stitched without a fray or loose string. Where did he get it from? Did he steal it? Or did he run away from home? I could identify with that. My eyes drift to his face. Does he have blue eyes? Sea-blue or a sky-blue? Was it even blue?

Oh. It's… he's…

"Hello, monsieur. It's cold tonight," I say, a lousy introduction and explanation. If I woke up to be embraced by someone alien, say, Papa, I would be very disturbed too.

My –sorry, _the_- monsieur doesn't reply and just sighs, leaning heavily against the wall. We stay like this for a while, me looking expectantly at him, him sighing, so lost and helpless. It seems more silent than usual in the city. I fidget. He doesn't move. I suppose he's too tired to move, and I can't help but wonder why. Another part of me is satisfied he doesn't escape. Maybe it's because he can't see my horrid face, 'cause any man would run away if they woke up to me enveloping them in a hug. It's good he can't see me.

"What's the matter?" I utter the words I always hoped someone would ask me, and I manage to put in warmth and concern, making my voice softer to sound gentler. To my horror, it makes my voice go deeper, like a – like a man's. I blush slightly. He couldn't see me. What if he thought that I was a male? Oh, no.

"I'm a girl," I blurt out without hesitation, trying to make my voice sound higher. It just ends up squeaking at the word 'girl'. I look at the monsieur, gauging his reaction. His head still rests back against the wall. His face betrays nothing; no disgust, no relief, no happiness, nothing. Maybe except a slight discomfort.

"Are you alright?" Was there anything wrong with him? An injury? I examine him quickly and diagnose him with nothing but fatigue. He doesn't make an effort to answer, and just stays there like I don't exist. Well monsieur, I do exist. If I have to embrace you again to make you know that, I will.

Giving him one last chance I ask, "Do you have anywhere to go, or to stay?"

A pause.

"No," he says softly. He sounds so tired, so defeated. No, this is not the monsieur in my head. But I have to odd urge to help him. I want to see him again. He's different from me and other gamins, he's really something special. He doesn't belong in these dirty streets; I want to know more. I'm not letting him go.

"Come with me, then," I declare, slight excitement bubbling in me. This may not be a happy occasion, but it's something different from the usual routine and who knows what good may come out of it? The monsieur cocks his head, as if thinking.

"There will be some warmth, at least for a while. It's better than staying here," I persuade. "I won't hurt you," I continue, putting on my best attempt at a gentle voice. At least I don't sound completely male this time.

The man twitches, probably having some inner argument- I have plenty of those- and then sighs finally and nods his head weakly. I smile widely, and tug on his arm, getting him to rise. He stumbles a bit as if he hasn't walked in a while when he stands up, but soon we're walking our way to home. My home. _Our _home. This fantasy tugs the corners of my lips.

The ground beneath my bare feet is cool, the air is fresh, and it doesn't seem as dark as before. And the best thing is that I'm not on my own. Feeling my new companion's hand grip my arm for support, I give a contented sigh every now and then. The monsieur also sighs and I pretend that we're on a romantic stroll under the beautiful moonlight by the river- well, part of that is true. At some points I babble about something absentmindedly, drabbling on and on like I always do and he never says anything. It's almost like he's something I created from my head again, and I would have believed that if not for the genuine, warm touch I feel on my arm. Another sigh escapes my lips. "That's a happy sigh. I'm happy, really monsieur," I proclaim. He nods warily.

Soon we reach our destination. I'm glad he can't see that either. Peeling walls, rats scurrying, splintered wooden floor… it's not a pretty sight. I let him settle down, a million questions at the tip of my tongue and still marveling at how sudden things can change in the course of one night. And I didn't even have to cry out.


End file.
